skirt and white blouse, and rushed out of the office.
Fortunately, the elevator was empty except for the cold-eyed Mr. Kilpatrick in his long overcoat, his thick black hair ruffled, and that eternal, infernal choking cigar in one hand. He gave her a cursory going-over that wasnât flattering.
âYou wanted to talk,â he said. âLetâs go.â He pushed the ground floor button and didnât say a word until they walked into the small coffee shop in the drugstore. He bought her a cup of black coffee, one for himself, and a doughnut. He offered her one. But she was too sick to accept it.
They sat down at a corner table and he studied her quietly while he sipped his coffee. Her hair was in its usual bun, her face devoid of makeup. She looked as she feltâwashed out and depressed.
âNo cutting remarks about my cigar?â he prompted with a raised eyebrow. âNo running commentary on my manners?â
She lifted her wan face and stared at him as if sheâd never seen him before. âMr. Kilpatrick, my life is falling apart, and I donât care very much about your cigar smoke or your manners or anything else.â
âWhat did your father say when you told him about your brother?â
She was tired of the pretense. It was time to lay her cards on the table. âI havenât seen or heard from my father in two years.â
He frowned. âWhat about your mother?â
âShe died when the boys were young, when I was sixteen.â
âWho takes care of them?â he persisted. âYour grandfather?â
âOur grandfather has a bad heart,â she said. âHe isnât able to take care of himself, much less anyone else. We live with him and take care of him as best we can.â
His big hand hit the table, shaking it. âAre you telling me that youâre taking care of the three of them by yourself?!â he demanded.
She didnât like the look on his dark face. She moved back a little. âYes.â
âMy God! On your salary?â
âGranddad has a farm,â she told him. âWe grow our own vegetables and I put them up in the freezer and can some. We usually raise a beef steer, too, and Granddad gets a pension from the railroad and his social security. We get by.â
âHow old are you?â
She glared at him. âThatâs none of your business.â
âYouâve just made it my business. How old?â
âTwenty-four.â
âYou were how old when your mother died?â
âSixteen.â
He took a draw from the cigar and turned his head to blow it out. His dark eyes cut into hers, and she knew now exactly how it felt to sit on the witness stand and be grilled by him. It was impossible not to tell him what he wanted to know. That piercing stare and cold voice full of authority would have extracted information from a garden vegetable. âWhy isnât your father taking care of his own family?â
âI wish I knew,â she replied. âBut he never has. He only comes around when he runs out of money. I guess heâs got enough; we havenât seen him since he moved to Alabama.â
He studied her face quietly for a long time, until her knees went weak at the intensity of the scrutiny. He was so dark, she thought, and that navy pin-striped suit made him look even taller and more elegant. His Indian ancestry was dominant in that lean face, although he seemed to have the temperament of the Irish.
âNo wonder you look the way you do,â he said absently. âWorn out. I thought at first it might be a demanding lover, but itâs overwork.â
She colored furiously and glared at him.
âThat insults you, does it?â he asked, his deep voice going even deeper. âBut you yourself told me that you were a kept woman,â he reminded her dryly.
âI lied,â she said, moving restlessly. âAnyway, Iâve got enough problems without loose